Innocence

Gwen appears behind him, clutching a stack of papers, which she begins to pass around the room.

Simon whips one from her hand and raises it high. ‘Here are your schedules for the next three months. As you can see, we expect a great deal from you—in addition to your regular classes there are masterclasses, workshops, private tutorials, and plenty of opportunities to see the greatest living actors of our generation in live performances. You’re in London now, ladies and gentlemen. It’s time to seize the day! If this is your chosen profession then you’ll need discipline, determination, the ego of a dictator and the stamina of a decathlon athlete! We’ve provided you with the most extraordinary professional actors, actresses and directors as teachers. In return we expect you to be prompt, prepared and, above all, professional.’

There’s an awful hacking sound on the other side of the door; a kind of retching cough, followed by a long, woeful moan: ‘Jesus! Fuuuuuck!’

The door opens and a dishevelled, overweight man, somewhere between the ages of forty-five and sixty, stumbles in, an unlit cigarette dangling off his lower lip. His thinning brown hair is scraped back across his scalp, and he’s wearing a wine-coloured pullover, grey suit trousers and a pair of well-worn black sneakers. He looks like a tramp. Standing just behind Simon, he pulls a gold lighter out of his back pocket. The cigarette fizzes into life. He inhales deeply.

‘Greetings.’ His voice is deep and resonant: the rounded, poignant timbre of a fallen hero. ‘Pardon me. Have I interrupted your St Crispin’s Day speech, Simon? Once more unto the breech and all that? “O! for a Muse of fire,’” he roars, ‘that would ascend the brightest whatever-the-fuck-it-is of invention!’

‘Not at all, my dear man!’ Simon’s all warm authority; they shake hands. ‘Just giving them an idea of what to expect.’ He turns his attention to us. ‘I’d like to introduce Boyd Alexander, who will be your principal acting instructor this term. Boyd has just returned from Russia where he’s been working with members of the Moscow Art Theatre on a new production of The Cherry Orchard.’

There’s an audible gasp; the Moscow Arts Theatre is legendary; the company Chekhov himself favoured.

‘He’s also due to direct the Wars of the Roses next season at the RSC, so we’re very, very lucky to have him.’

Boyd executes a little half-bow, nearly scorching himself with his cigarette in the process.

‘Right!’ He pulls a chair up and collapses into it. ‘Enough about me. Run along, Simon! Now’—he glowers at us—‘what I really want to know is, can you people act? Or are you just poncing about in London on your parents’ credit cards for a few months?’

Gwen and Simon exchange a look.

Boyd waves them on. ‘Off you go, you two! And Gwen, a cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss. Trust me,’ he purrs placatingly ‘I am, after all, a professional!’

They leave. The rest of us are left clasping our schedules, the way that lost tourists cling to maps.

‘You were meant to prepare an audition speech. So, which one of you has the balls to go first?’

All eyes hit the floor.

He groans, inhaling again. ‘Fine. Shall we do it like this, then? How many Juliets do we have with us today?’

Three hands go up.

‘Of course. Let’s start with the Juliets. And how many of you have prepared balcony scenes? Please rise.’

Two of the girls stand up; a small brunette with glasses and a rosy-cheeked redhead.

Boyd leans forward in his chair, rubbing his hands together. ‘Now, my dears.’ His voice is sinister. ‘I want you to do the speech together at the same time.’ He points to the brunette. She’s biting her lip. ‘You take one line and you’—he turns to the redhead—‘you take the next, do you understand?’ She nods, tugging at her skirt nervously. ‘And yes, my darlings, this is a punishment because no one should have to sit through the balcony scene more than once on any occasion and also, as actresses, you should know better. Juliet has some stonking speeches filled with lust, death, suicide, ghosts, the whole bloody lot and you guys have chosen the naffest one of them all!’

They blink at him. The small brunette with glasses looks as if she might cry.

Boyd swivels round to the rest of us. ‘The first rule of being an actor is to grab the limelight. Make the most daring choices you can. Wherever you are, find a light bulb and stand under it! If you don’t want to be looked at, if you don’t want to be noticed, then you’re in the wrong profession. And for fuck’s sake, do something worth watching! Now that you’ve got our bloody attention, keep it! Right! Off you go!’

They stand, huddled together in the centre of the studio. The brunette starts, hands shaking.

‘“Romeo, Romeo.’” Barely audible, her voice is brittle and choked with tears. ‘“Wherefore art thou Romeo?’”

‘Stop!’ Boyd barks, jabbing his cigarette out on the floor. He strides over, grasping her by the shoulders. ‘Are you going to cry?’

She nods her head, unable to form the words.

‘Brilliant! Use it! Channel it! Feed it into the language! Finally! I’ve always wanted someone to do something different with this speech! What’s your name?’

‘Louise,’ she whispers.

‘Speak up, girl!’

‘Louise!’ she shouts back, suddenly irritated.

And he smiles. A great, wonderful, warm, open smile.

His eyes gleam. Bouncing into the centre of the room, he flings his arms wide, throws back his head and shouts ‘Louise!’ until the windows shake. Grabbing her hands, he whirls her round. ‘LOUISE!! LOUISE!!’

And she’s giggling, laughing. ‘Wherefore art thou Louise?’

He catches the redhead’s hand. ‘Go on!’

‘“Deny thy father and refuse thy name!’”

‘“Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,’”

The redhead spins round. ‘“And I’ll no longer be a Capulet!’”

They’ve caught the rhythm; we can feel it.

“‘’Tis but thy name that is my enemy;’”

‘“Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.’”

‘“What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot.’” They take each other’s hands. ‘“Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man!”’

And so they dance, turn, vault around the room, throwing the words back and forth, volleyball in iambic pentameter. It becomes in turns breathless, urgent, fanciful—laced with longing, then drenched in desire; everything a young girl with her first crush would be, standing in the moonlight of her own private garden.

‘I want you to remember this.’ Boyd pulls both his Juliets in closer. ‘I want you to remember what it’s like to be alive, to be young; to have the most wonderful language ever written rolling about in your mouth—the flavour of the words on your tongue and this rhythm, driving you. It’s a sensual experience. Acting’s all about the senses. Well done, both of you.’ He releases them.

They stagger, elated, back to their seats.

‘So.’ He stretches his arms high above his head and yawns. ‘How many Hamlets do we have today?’

Tentatively, I raise my hand.

Imo looks at me.

‘I see.’ Boyd gestures for me to stand up. ‘So, a bit of a Sarah Bernhardt, are we?’

I knew this would be tricky.

‘And what, exactly, is your difficulty with the traditional women’s roles?’